S02E05: Tyneham

[opening theme music]

Time is 3am, I'm Alan Partridge, From the Oasthouse, just making myself a cup of tea. I know it's quite early, but that is because I'm on a little mission today. And, er, a bit of milk. Very fussy about my milk. Today I'm going to journey back in my car to a moment frozen in time, specifically a time when Britain was still great. A time by the name of 1943. 

Why do you want to go back in time, Alan? Well, it's because the present day has started to cheese me off a little. I was in a hospital pay and display car park, trying to find a space, and a man returned to his car and said, "Have my space, I've got half an hour left on my ticket, have that as well". I took them with thanks and gratitude, you know, my faith in humanity, somewhat restored, and went for my appointment in the hospital. But when I returned to my car, I was being given a fine.

I said to the inspector, "You can see my ticket doesn't expire for another ten minutes!". He said, "Yes, but this isn't your ticket, you bought it under a different reg number". I said, "Granted, but the man who bought it didn't need his full three hours, so he gave the remainder to me". He said, "You can't do that, they're non-transferable". I said, "Why?", he said, "To stop you getting something for nothing, you'd be getting a parking space and not paying". 

I said, "Yes, but under this system, you're getting something for nothing. You're getting paid twice for the use of one parking space, why can't you just pretend I'm the bloke that bought the ticket? No-one would be any the wiser, you get the same net payment. The council department that oversees these things will have no view as long as the same income occurs, why does it matter?". And he just stared at me. He said, "Those are the rules".

I said, "Yes, but within your job description there is a provision that allows you a degree of autonomy to make a judgment of the circumstances in that moment. In other words, you, within your contract of employment, are permitted a degree of flexibility to allow you to make a pragmatic judgment, which I would suggest, under the current circumstances, is to let it go". 

And he just kept staring at me, either because he wanted to be defiant or because he didn't understand what 'pragmatic' meant. And in the end, I had to pay. I mean, god knows what was going on in his life, who knows? We can but speculate. Perhaps he was bullied at school. Perhaps his father ran off, or clouted him now and again for his, erm... dunderheadedness. Perhaps his wife was sleeping with all his friends. Who knows? 

So I let him have his little victory, not that I was going to let him see I'd won. I just wandered across the car park with a bit of a shoulder-roll, gobbed on a wall, hopped in the car, buggered the seatbelt, dropped the window, put my shades on except I couldn't find them, I could only find some big, white, women's ones so I put those on, stuck my elbow out the window, hit the gas, wheels spun out of there, stereo on full-blast, gave him an earful. Unfortunately, it was Radio 4, so I just blasted his eardrums with Melvin Bragg talking about the Enlightenment. You know, not ideal. I mean, the irony, of course, made me quietly chuckle. But it was totally lost on that jobsworth.

Either way, he got an earful. Once I was clear of the hospital driving home, I dropped the window and two thoughts occurred to me. One, the surface area and aperture of women's sunglasses is so comprehensive that there are zero blind spots. And two, what has happened to Britain? What's happened to that blitz spirit, that sense of community that used to pull us together in times of need? I mean, this was a car park outside a hospital, or certainly a private cosmetic clinic, all of which had been hankering for a time when sacrifice mattered. 

So in this episode of From the Oasthouse, we're heading to a place and time where it did matter - let's grab my coat - it's a day out for me, and hopefully food for thought for the self-centred people who man Pay-and-Display car parks. Although they're unlikely to listen to podcasts, certainly not ones behind a paywall. Oh, I've forgotten to finish my tea. Never mind, I've got a ginger kombucha in the car. Ginger kombucha. Good name for a porn star. Sorry. 

[theme music sting]

[quietly singing to himself in the car] There is a woman at a gate, staring as I drive my car past. There is a fella on a bike, staring as I drive my car past. 

Well, it's 5am and I've been on the road for two hours. I must confess, I'm feeling a little giddy. Part of that is tiredness of course, I've got that almost drunk feeling. But the kind of drunk where you're still all right to drive. So two pints if you live in a built-up area, three and a glass of wine if you're in the country.

But I'm also giddy with excitement because we're going back to the past! If you're a member of the Conservative Party, you'll love the past. But if you're not, and you've vote Labour, because you're jealous of those who've had a few bob to spare, well you'll probably still agree that history is fascinating.

Today we're on our way to a place where time has stood still. Please, forget the Norwich jokes. Heard them all before and, FYI, Norwich is not stuck in the past, it's actually a very progressive place to live, with everything from wi-fi to a gay bar! No, we're actually off to Dorset to visit the town of Tyneham, an abandoned village not occupied for some eighty years that has become a byword for British sacrifice, which is why I was talking about going back in time earlier. 

Not in a TARDIS or a time machine or any of that gubbins. Actually, I must call Dan Gubbins.

I recently bought a bell tent from him, and half the pegs are missing... which I think he knew. Well, that's Gubbsy! Good company but if you shake his hand, count your fingers afterwards! [laughs] He'd laugh at that, to be fair. 

Well, here I am in the county of Dorset. Dorset, of course, being an anagram of Strode. And you join me as I stride along the coastal path back to Tyneham. Dorset, of course, often overlooked in the public consciousness in favour of its brasher brother Cornwall but to me, and others like me, Dorset is very much the sophisticated choice. The Jonathan Dimbleby to Cornwall's David. Dorset, of course, the county of Thomas Hardy, whereas Cornwall is just... It's just pirates, really, isn't it? 

[a capella music sting]

But back to Tyneham. What's its story? Well, picture the scene. It's Christmas 1943, and on the streets there is not a soul to be seen. Go into the village shop, and it's the same story. And the church, and the school, and in the pretty row of terraced houses. No, Tyneham is deserted you see, with secret Allied plans afoot to storm the Normandy beaches and take back France - who seemed incapable of doing it themselves - from the grip of the Jew-bashing Nazis, the War Office had given the village's 252 residents twenty-eight days to pack their belongings and clear off.

Almost like in the old days, there would be the preferred method of removing gypsies from a patch of local wasteland. Which is what the residents here kind of became, in the words of Cher's classic track, Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves. I might play that at the end of the episode, budget permitting. 

And sure enough, on the 17th of December... I'm just arriving now in the heart of the village. On the 17th of December 1943, the last residents left. Imagine leaving behind the town you've always called home. What a wrench. The idea that Ministry of Defence would evacuate, for example, Norwich, and say that we could never go back. I mean, it just doesn't bear thinking about! But completely unrecognisable, it would be, like, 28 Days Later, a weird, sort of, sci-fi wasteland.

Deserted, bar a few zombies walking down the street. I think you'd definitely notice a change. Yeah, the Norwich community would be scattered across East Anglia like dandelion spores, a proud people, but one that had faced unknown hardship. Eventually, we'd - I imagine - demand a settlement where we could once again live together. One side of Ipswich would simply have to vacate. And what's the alternative? You know, we're a people with no home. And if Ipswich doesn't like it, they can lump it! 

I think I may be talking about Israel. Damn it! Israel is the one topic they asked me not to discuss! Yeah, that and abortion and trans rights and Spotify. 

[light, jazzy trumpet music]

Supper Clubs.

Supper clubs are getting more popular than ever, and here are two you can enjoy in Norfolk. Dining in the Dark with Daniel, an immersive dining experience conducted in complete darkness to ensure the food is the star. Although initially disconcerting, Daniel is a friendly and tactile host who's worked for short periods in several top London restaurants before being moved on. 

He has a full CRB police-check and anyway he's married, so there's absolutely nothing to worry about. But try not to come alone.

Jasmine and Briony's Squiffy Suppers. The emphasis is very much on fun! On arrival, guests receive the same welcome cocktails that Jasmine and Briony have been tucking into since late afternoon, and a combination of party games and the host's infectious personality, their words, soon get the party in full swing. 

The courses are wine-matched. And while the quality of cooking nosedives after the first couple of courses, the raucous giggling means that food will be the last thing on your mind, although Briony can become maudlin by the time dessert is served. Overall, not for me, other people seem to like it.

It's about ten minutes later from when I was just talking about that other stuff. And I'm here in the village and it really is quite an eerie place. Everything's here... apart from people. I suppose it has a very haunting air. A haunting. And I suppose the people who left this village were effectively refugees.
I guess they would have been absorbed into... where's near here? Bournemouth, maybe? Or perhaps a holding facility in Poole? God help them. I'm sure they'd have been well treated. And that's the British way.

Look how we welcomed hundreds, if not dozens, of Ukrainian refugees into our homes. Yes, we didn't welcome Syrians into our homes in quite the same way. I know they too were persecuted just as badly, but not welcomed. Not sure why, but it can't be the way they look, can it? 

Yes, but Ukrainians were very much welcomed. I had a Ukrainian live with me for a while. She wasn't an asylum seeker, we were in a sexual relationship and to be fair, that was twenty years ago. Yeah, that was a tough time. Tough time for her, tougher time for me. I suppose if you want to be pernickety, I did grant her asylum in my home while the relationship lasted, but the two things were totally unrelated. It wasn't as if I said, [gruff voice] "I make you welcome, now you pay".

And equally on her part, there was no "Me love you long time" kind of thing. No, I think what we had was based on mutual respect. And yes, spade a spade, no-holds-barred animal-attraction. Yeah. Whoof! 

[theme music sting]

Plane going into Bournemouth Airport, god knows why. Full of old people coming back from somewhere warm, change of scenery. If the residents of the 1943 village had heard that, they would have said, "What in god's green earth is that sound?!". And if there was a British civil engineer on the spot, he would have said, "That, young lady, is the sound of a jet turbine. It's the travel of the future, believe me. The white heat of technology". They would have grabbed her around the waist and said, "Come on, let's get you a shandy". Different times, different times.

Absolutely no-one around. The remaining road signs as useless as a chocolate fireguard. I love that phrase. Or indeed, any fire guard made of non-heat resistant material. I mean, the fact that- butter, that would be another one. Egg, that's another. I suppose with an egg fireguard, you'd initially get an omelette but for how long? 

But I digress, I've just reached the phone box. Nothing inside. No. My face up to the glass. [knocks on glass] Long-since defunct Bakelite telephone with the dial. I miss dials. Yes, unusual design, cream with red doors. Of course, people forget that phone-boxes used to come in numerous different designs, this one, of course, being the first, the K1. 

The classic red phone-boxes Britain's famous for, the K6s were introduced in 1935 for the jubilee of King George V, but didn't become standard around the country until after the Second World War by which time Tyneham had long-since been abandoned. Was that boring? I don't think it was. Do I? No, I don't. No, I don't. I don't. 

I often tell my grandchildren that before phone boxes had defibrillators in them, you could barely see through the windows for the plethora of prostitute cards plastered on the glass with all sorts of suggestive little slogans, "Madam Such-and-such will...", you know, do whatever. "Miss Thingamajig". "Lady Whatchamacallit"... "Piddle on my so-and-so". 

Just passing the Post Office. Incredible to think that this street and all these buildings would once have been filled with people and chatter.

[affecting a West-country man voice] Morning, Maureen. 

[West-country woman voice] Evening, Joe. 

[man] How's things? 

[woman] Oh, you know, getting along. I hear a rumour they're going to turn the village over to the MOD so they can practice shooting Germans or something. 

[man] Over my dead body!

[woman] It might come to that. Ha ha ha ha ha!

[man] Ha ha ha ha ha! No, I, I shan't allow that. I've lived here, before me my father lived here, my father's father lived here, my father's father's father lived here, my father's father's father's father lived here, my father's father's father's father's father lived here, and on and on I could go, Maureen!

Anyway, on we go. Okay, strolling up to the, er... strolling up to the chapel here. There's a man over there, right off in the distance walking this way. I'm going to walk the other way. I'm pretty sure I'm allowed to be here. I mean, I know it's a Ministry of Defence site, but it's not as if it's Chernobyl. Similar vibe, I guess. I've never been. I'd love to go one day.

Actually, it's more like the village of Eyam. I don't know if you know that, it's where in the 1600s the locals cut themselves off from everyone to avoid spreading the plague after an outbreak and sacrificed themselves to save the lives of others. Not dissimilar to COVID, I suppose. We all had to make sacrifices to stop the spread of disease, especially during lockdown. I barely went out.

A friend of mine converted his basement into a speakeasy and a few of us would gather down there, but we'd always wear masks. We'd lift them up if we were sipping the cocktails, but we'd put them straight down afterwards and one of us would keep an ear out for, er... footsteps above. Every now and then we'd, we'd be shushed as we heard someone approach.

I've never felt more Anne Frank. One sound would reveal our location, because it could have been the cops. I mean, normally it was a Deliveroo driver, but... still. And honestly, the whinging you heard about COVID and lockdown, what happened to the Blitz spirit? Stiff upper lip. Rallying around to help your fellow man. Good cheer of the plucky British attitude. And yes, during the Blitz, looting was rife, the murder-rate went up and overall crime increased by half during the war, but I tell you something, they did it with a bloody smile.

That man's getting closer. Very purposeful stride, dressed all in black. I don't know if you've ever seen Yul Brynner, how he walks in Westworld - or Kirstie Allsopp when she wants to speak to a worker on her estate whose tea break has gone on too long - but it has echoes of that.

He's coming right towards me, it's quite unsettling. And I know it's 99.9999% not a training exercise where armed Special Forces are released and told to pick off intruders, but it is a military training facility and why else is he walking like that? Actually, I might just pop in here. 

This is the village school, preserved as a kind of living museum. I mean, look at that, neat rows of desks and wooden chairs, school books, played out really for the day ahead. Very like Pompeii, frozen in time, but without the petrified corpses. Of course, the children will be petrified. I can imagine a stern mistress ruling the classroom with a rod of iron, and of course, in those days, you could smack kids, particularly if they misbehaved. 

Okay, I can hear footsteps, someone's approaching the school. Oh, God, they're freaking me out.

I've hidden in a cupboard. A bit of a squeeze, but I'm in. My god, he's getting closer. What the fuck do they want from me? I shouldn't have come here, all because I had a row with the ticket inspector in a cosmetic clinic car park.

And yes, fine, it was a cosmetic appointment, nothing wrong with that. And yes, some people overdo it on the corrective surgery. Some men's faces look like they've got their heads stuck out of the car window permanently while their dad's driving on the motorway. I'm not sure that's what most of them asked for. If they did then fair play to the surgeon, they've nailed it. But I mean, why would a man want an aerodynamic face? Unless he was a cyclist.

Just a quick look. I don't know what to do. Is it worse to stay hiding or pop out? I'm panicking. Oh, I've got wind. I'm scared of letting off. Hold it, Alan, hold it! And one thing they teach in the SAS is trump containment because in covert situations, a fart can spell death. I don't mean because it smells, although that would also give away your position eventually, depending on wind direction. But you have a decision to make. Do you chance getting it all out in one big trump and using the sound of a passing lorry as cover, or, you know, eke it out in stages in which case it can turn into a whistle or half whistle, half squeak. [footsteps get closer and the cupboard door is opened]

Hello.

[a school-age boy] "What are you doing here?" 

Nothing. I'm just a man in the cupboard. So go away, please. Why are you dressed like a boy from the war? 

"Because this is how we dressed in the 1940s". 

Wait, are you a ghost? 

"No".

Well, why? Wait, what year is it? 

"You mean the actual year?" 

Yes. 

"2022". 

Oh, thank God for that. I thought you were a ghost. So why are you dressed like that? 

"Because we're on a school trip, learning about the war. Why do you have staples under your chin?".

They're to seal a scar.

"Did someone try and slit your throat?".

No, I've had a chin tuck. Do you know what that is? 

"No". 

It's surgery. Are you familiar with the role of collagen in maintaining the elasticity of the skin? 

"No". 

Okay. Well, middle-aged and ageing men have a thing best described as under-chin turkey wattle, and I wanted to eliminate that.

"Why?". 

To give- to boost my self-confidence. 

"Hm. Why are you in a cupboard?". 

[sighs] Because I don't want people to know I've had cosmetic surgery to remove my under-chin turkey wattle. 

"It's all right. I won't tell anyone". 

Okay, good. Cheers.

"Can I have some money?".

What for? 

"To keep it a secret". 

How much? 

"Twenty quid?". 

Oh, yeah, alright. There you go. 

"Cheers. Can I have some more?" 

What for? 

"So that I don't tell anyone you gave me money".

A tenner? 

"That'll do". 

Okay. All right, so that's thirty for everything, yeah? 

"Yeah".

Good, good, okay. Thank you. Bye.

[closing theme music]